Friday, October 18, 2013

Seventy-Eight Edges - Wednesday

Seventy-Eight Edges – Wednesday

If you don't know what's going on, get with the program. You should be checking this blog every single day!  And on top of that, you should be buying my books. They're cheap.  And while I'm saying it, you should buy Michael's books too.  Especially "The Challenge of Love," which is totally amazing and you can even get it in paper!  Wow!  How's that for cool. 

So where am I?  I was sick yesterday, so no orgasms or edges, but Wednesday I was fine and that's what today's post is about.  Thursday's description is easy. Breanne had a headache and did nothing but lay around, try to write a little, and take ibuprofen.  But Wednesday... Wednesday wasn’t any easier than Tuesday, and after I posted my little blurb on the blog it wasn’t long before one of my online Doms emailed me.  It was Master Mark, a lover not of the more sadistic and masochistic adventures I have, but of the more humiliating kind, and the moment his email flashed up on my screen I felt as if I were on an elevator that had just taken a quick drop.  My mouth fell open and I literally thought I was going to be sick.  I shuddered violently for a second, trying to imagine how horrible his little assignment would be. 

After lunch and four more near misses with a truck called “orgasm,” I climbed into my own truck (which I call “Bre’s Truck”) and headed out.  I felt strung out, tense and needy and the fact that the vibroballs were still inside my depths, still rolling around, despite being off, was just enough to keep me on edge – though not the edge we’ve been talking about.  I was already wearing a skirt and a quick stop at the side of the road gave me the opportunity to change out the tee shirt I had on.  This was replaced with another halter top, one that covered me completely, but was tight enough to have been painted on and you could easily see the bump of both my piercing, the small padlock, and of course the tips of both breasts.  To make matters worse, the halter was white, making it somewhat see-through, and there was a giant red cross in the center, resembling the international symbol for first aid.  Underneath it, in bold, large letters was the phrase “Orgasm Donor.” 

That doesn’t leave a lot of room for misunderstandings.

My boots and socks were replaced with my fuck me heels, a pair of crystal clear, plastic, uncomfortable high heels appropriate only for a stripper, a whore, or a nympho humiliation pain slut who was about to spend four hours at the local mall. 

And that was NOT my choice. I had no desire to go to the local mall.  First of all, I knew Julie was working.  And that meant stopping by, which of course would mean enduring her usual “hello.”  Then there was David, who liked when I came to the mall, but also had a habit of mistreating me.  Add in the fact that I hadn’t yet officially confirmed on whether or not I was going to New York with him, and you can understand why I was understandably concerned that there wasn’t any room to negotiate. 

And dealing with David and Julie weren’t even part of the assignment!

I pulled up in front of my usual favorite store, the outdoor retailer that sells everything from duck calls to motorboats.  I hadn’t been in the place for a long time and while I was glad to see that the greeter wasn’t someone I recognized, much less fucked at some point, he did give me a long, hard look.  I’m sure it was because my skirt was so fashionable, and not the fact that every other part of my attire screamed “SLUT! FUCK ME!” 

And that was the crux of what I was doing there at the mall in the first place.  I took a deep breath, mentally rehearsing in my mind what Master Mark had ordered me to say.  My stomach tightened and I felt the traditional butterflies inside me.  My sex tightened up around the vibroballs and for a second, I contemplated turning the damn vibrating balls up, just to help me along, but I knew in an instant that idea was the dumbest one I’ve ever had.  I’d be cumming so quick that I wouldn’t even know what happened, much less stop it in time.

The rest of this tale from Breanne Erickson is available in her book "Tales of a Nympho Humiliation Pain Slut, Volume 8" available at  Click here to find out what happened next!

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